


The Stained Cloak

by notyourparadigm



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU: Theon returns to Robb, Gen, Poor Theon, Sad Theon, and things still go badly, could be canon if you squint
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-08 07:35:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11641929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notyourparadigm/pseuds/notyourparadigm
Summary: AU in which Theon returns to Robb instead of attacking Winterfell. Things don't go much better for him."Theon betrayed the Starks! He should've gone back to Robb and fought against the Ironborn what a traitor!!!" - To all those who said this, I offer this fic. What I imagine would happen if Theon were to disregard his father's choice, and instead return to the Stark host with news that the Greyjoys are in open rebellion and plan to attack the North while the Starks proceed south to King's Landing. I also wanted an excuse to write a full interaction between two of my favourite characters, Theon and Jaime.Apparently Northerners didn't learn to not kill the messenger-- especially when Theon himself was taken as ward for a situation just like this. When Robb refuses to behead Theon for his father's betrayal, nobody is pleased. As the men march back North to fight off the assaulting Ironborn, Theon finds himself stuck with guard duty of perhaps the only man hated more by the Northerners than himself–- Jaime Lannister.





	1. Theon

His time on Pyke had already taught him not to expect grand welcoming parties. Still, Theon had to remind himself that punching the fat, scowling guard was not going to gain him entry into the camp, unless he planned to fight the boy’s tall, bearish looking partner as well. 

“––one of you just fetch the King yourself, then. I’ll wait here. Just be quick about it.” _There’s no time to waste. Robb should have already mobilized his army. Why is he still so far South?_

The boy raised his oblong nose towards Theon, beady eyes looking him up and down. “Like hell the King’ll see you. If you’re some sort of sellsword or hedge knight, keep on travelling. We’ve got no work for you lot here.”

“I’m not a fucking sellsword,” Theon spat, suddenly over-conscious of his worn and filth-spotted appearance. “I need to speak with the King immediately. Drag him out from bed, if that’s what it takes. Tell him that Theon has returned and requests an immediate counsel.”

“I think we’re already having a lovely little counsel here. Don’t you agree, Dom?” He gave Dom a thoughtful look, and Dom returned an ever-unsmiling nod. He hadn’t spoken a word since Theon had dismounted from his wheezing horse, demanding entrance into the camp. It had been well past a fortnight since he had left the ports of Seagard, and most days he had ridden hard from dawn till dusk–– it was a wonder that the poor beast was still standing. It had helped none in the fact that Theon had spent three days riding in the wrong direction; news of Robb Stark’s march was all the folks in the Riverlands seemed to speak of, but every story spoke of a different battle, fought in a different location. At night, Theon mused bitterly to himself that he was going to be stuck chasing Robb’s tail for the entirety of the war, perhaps becoming the next Late Lord himself. 

“If you’re Theon Greyjoy, then where are all your men and ships?” Theon could count the gaps in the guard’s teeth as he gave him a mocking grin. _I wonder if I could fit a quarrel between one of them._ “His Grace sent him off to treat with his father, to earn us the ships we need to take King’s Landing.”

“Aye, he did. He’ll probably be wondering where they are. Perhaps you should let me tell him.”

“Why not just tell me? I’ll make sure to deliver the news, I promise.”

_This fool had better sleep with one eye open. “_ Fine. You tell Robb Stark yourself that you were the one who was daft enough to turn away––”

“––is that you, Greyjoy?” 

Theon didn’t recognize the voice at first, but finally being acknowledged by his name brought him a rush of relief nonetheless. “It is, as I’ve been trying to convince your guardsmen. I did not think I would be so quickly forgotten here.”

“We did not think you would return,” said the Greatjon, fumbling to lace his breeches with fingers and stumps. “Some of the men had started placing bets.”

“How thoughtful of them.” Theon did not bother to feign a smile in the dark, pushing his way past the suddenly silent guardsmen. “I hope you don’t mind waiting until the morrow to declare the winners. I must speak with Robb immediately. Is His Grace still awake?”

“Aye, discussing matters with Karstark and Bolton. Too much talk. That’s all we seem to do nowadays. I’m glad to take a piss whenever I can–– I’ve no interest in treaties or arrangements… I find matters settled in blood far more dependable then those settled in ink.”

_You share that much with my father, at least._ But what was Robb doing discussing treaties? He had made it clear in his letter that negotiations with the ironborn were not possible, that he had to act now or risk losing the North entirely. “Have we not sent any men North yet?”

“North? We’re heading South, boy. At this rate King’s Landing will be ours within the year, perhaps quicker if you’ve brought as many ships as you promised.”

Theon felt his throat go dry. _They mustn’t have gotten the raven._ They didn’t know of Balon Greyjoy’s plans to take the North while Robb busied himself with the Lannisters. _Gods, we’re so far South, we’ll be lucky if we still have half our strongholds by the time we’ve marched back…_

“You _did_ remember the ships, eh Greyjoy?”

“Ships are coming, alright,” said Theon. “But their sails are pointed in the wrong direction.”

 

* * *

 

It took all of Theon’s resolve to not shiver fiercely at the wind as he stood in silence within the tent; the material held upon the four stilts seemed thinner than normal, and the breeze seemed even colder than it had felt outside, before he had been forced to tell Robb Stark that his father planned to attack and capture the North. If Theon never had to speak a word again, he would die happy— never had he ever hated the sound of his voice so much as he did when hearing himself report the news. He had forced himself to look Robb in the eyes as he did so, too, allowing himself the most unpleasant experience of watching as Robb’s initial look of relief at Theon’s return melted away like summer snow, an expression of horror and disbelief slipping across his sun-bronzed face instead. During his explanation, Karstark repeatedly made noises of anger and disgust, Umber continued to interrupt Theon mid-sentence, and Bolton asked too many damned questions. But Robb had remained silent, without even a sigh or sound of upset at the news. The lack of reaction bothered Theon even more than the other three men combined. 

After the situation was more or less explained in full — Theon made sure to exclude the rude treatment his family had afforded him or any of the other embarrassing details — the three men began to discuss and argue amongst themselves about the most appropriate course of actions, forgetting the existence of their king entirely for the moment. The Greatjon seemed intent on attacking the Ironborn before they could be attacked, while Bolton remained on the topic of reorganizing the strength North into a more easily defendable formation. Karstark had little to add from a strategic point, as he seemed most eager to swear loudly and vow death upon “every ironborn scum in Westeros” for acting like “traitorous whores”; he could only repeat the fact that all the battles they had won in the South, all the men they had lost to capture strongholds and advance towards King’s Landing, would prove meaningless now that they had to march right back north. As the three continued their verbal volley with each other, Theon couldn’t help but suddenly feel as young and helpless as the day he had arrived in Winterfell, Robb looking just as small and confused as he remembered at their first meeting.

“My mother,” the Boy-King’s head snapped upwards, towards Lord Bolton. “We must send a raven at once for her to return. Where is she? When did we hear from her last?”

“We haven’t heard word of Lady Catelyn’s whereabouts since we heard of Renly Baratheon’s death.”

Roose Bolton said something else afterwards, but Theon had not heard a word of it. _Renly is dead? Was he killed in battle?_ He had heard whispers of the Baratheon brothers during his fortnight of riding as well, that Stannis and Renly  both had declared themselves as Rightful Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, and that neither would bend the knee to the other. There had been word of two Baratheon hosts moving towards each other— _perhaps the battle was a short one_ … 

“…put someone else on guard duty and send them both to Riverrun. Have them escort Lady Catelyn back to me personally— if she is not there, they are to ride for her last location and search until they find her. I do not want her going anywhere without me, in case she tries to do something… rash.”

Theon completely forgotten about Lady Catelyn. She must have left the host not long after himself, if she had been with the Baratheon host prior to their battle. _Thank the old gods and the new she isn’t here. That’s all this counsel needs is a mother crying for the babes she left behind when Robb called the banners. With her here, we’d be marching without sleep back to Winterfell until she made sure they still had all the hairs on their head._ Theon wanted to laugh to himself, but the guilt in his stomach couldn’t even permit him that much.

Karstark rose to his feet. “At the very least, I think we can all agree that a morning beheading would be best.”

Theon tasted bile, but he managed to hold his expression still.

“Beheading?” Robb sounded half a child as he spoke the word. It took him a moment until he realized what it meant. “Lord Karstark, surely you aren’t suggesting—”

“It seems you’ve forgotten the reason why we’ve had Greyjoy all these years. The day has finally come that he serves his purpose. If we do not punish Balon Greyjoy as promised, foe and allies alike will question our resolve. Northerners do not make empty promises.”

“I do not recall ever promising to behead Theon.”

The Greatjon made a gruff noise. “Lord Eddard made that promise. Now the duty falls to you.”

“Truly? Were any of you present when he said this?” 

_No. But I was._ Theon had to fight every urge to speak or move, knowing it was time for him to remain a statue. King Robert and Lord Eddard, staring down at the back of Balon Greyjoy’s bent neck. The image remained clear in his head even after ten years, but he could not remember the words that they exchanged— only that there was a mention of his name, and an echo of _ward_ between the three men. Theon had recognized a bizarre tone that skewed the word, like the face of a mummer in disguise. _A mask to hide the ugly truth._

”Even if my father had made such a promise, I am not my father, and I will not behead a man who has committed no treachery. Theon has returned to our cause of his own will, and of mine own will I declare him a free man.”

“Are you mad?!” Karstark’s voice rumbled with indignation. “He must at the least remain our prisoner! We could ransom––”

“If Lord Balon valued Theon’s life, I do not think he would let him leave so easily.”

_I never said I left easily._ Nor had Balon even tried to stop him— if anything, he had urged him to leave, to let Theon himself prove that he was the “traitorous whore” they thought he was.

“Unless he planned to use him as a spy,” said Bolton, folding his arms.

“If you three had your way, Theon’s head would be on a spike before our next meal. Balon would not have much use of a dead spy.”

“He knows you have a soft spot for him,” Umber pointed accusingly at Theon. “Don’t be a fool and play into his plan!”

Robb held the Greatjon in a gaze of icy fury Theon had never seen before. “I appreciate your concern, Lord Umber, but I do not appreciate your tone nor your resistance towards my judgement. Regardless of my “fondness” of Theon, my decision stands. I will not behead an innocent man, and I do not think any good would come of doing so.”

The Greatjon fumbled at his words, face mixed with embarrassment and anger. Fortunately, Robb cut him off before he could speak.

“—however, until you three are convinced that Theon does not plan to betray us, he will not be permitted to send any ravens and will not be permitted to leave his tent at night without an escort.”

Theon felt his breath sucked from his lungs. A part of him wanted to feel happy that Robb was so adamantly defining him when everyone else wanted him dead, but he couldn’t help but feel the bitter blow of Robb suggesting such treatment. _Keeping me on a chain will prove nothing, except that you don’t trust me either._

Robb turned to Karstark before any more complaints could arise. “How many men did you leave at the Karhold?”

A scoff. “Not fucking enough.”

“ _How many_?” 

“Maybe five hundred, nearly all green boys.”

“What about the Dreadfort?” 

“Eight hundred,” said Roose Bolton, “But I’m afraid none are fit to lead or command.”

“Last Hearth?”

“Even less than the rest,” admitted Umber.

Robb leaned against the table with both arms, staring down at its map with furrowed brows. “We’ll have to mobilize the eastern forces to help reinforce the west. Unless the ironborn plan to sail around Dorne, they will land along the western shore and then move out to the mainland. Should Moat Cailin fall, we shall be lucky to ever step foot in the North again. Next, prioritize  holding Deepwood Motte, Barrowton, Torrhen’s Square…”

_Too late. All too late._ Theon shook his head, partially because it had grown light at how _wrong_ everything was. “My sister will have already reached Deepwood Motte. She left from Pyke the same day I did, with thirty ships, and soon my uncle Victarion will lead the iron fleet in an attack upon Moat Cailin–––”

“And you never thought to send a raven to warn us?” Karstark turned a scowl towards Theon.

“Of course I did! Something must have happened to the bloody bird.” Theon had been forced to sneak into Maester Wendamyr’s tower to send the message; he had not trusted the Maester enough to send the letter without informing his father of its destination. A knot of guilt sat in his stomach at the memory– _I’m no bloody Maester, how was I to know if I sent the right bird? I should have taken my chances with Wendamyr and left Pyke before he could tell anyone. Else I could have just put a knife in his heart after he was done._ The more he thought about his actions, the more he came to regret each one.

“I’ve sent many a raven sent in my years, and I’ve yet to have one of my own messages displaced.” Bolton spoke softly, as he always did.

Theon bristled. “Do you accuse me of lying?” 

“Do you admit to it?”

“No. I sent a raven for Riverrun and left on the first ship that would take me.” _I had to pose as a commoner to do it, too. To think I’d have to smuggle myself away from my own home._

“ _Enough_ ,” said Robb. “We’ll be needing ravens of our own now. Write to every holdfast in the North, warn of them of the invasion and tell them to rally their men. Send garrisons of men from the Dreadfort and Winterfell to make for Moat Cailin. If Deepwood Motte has not yet fallen, send men from Karhold and Last Hearth to repel the attack. We can’t allow our forces to be spread too thinly–– the ironborn will hope to find small armies to pick off one by one. They’ll struggle against larger numbers in a well-manned stronghold. What we lack in numbers we will have to compensate in strategy. On the morrow, we ride North with the full strength of our host.”

“Your Grace, if we do not maintain our occupation of the South, all of our battles will have been for naught! If you were to leave half the host here––”

“I have made my decision, Lord Umber. We have not fought for the North’s independence only to have it snatched from us while our backs are turned.” Robb gave each of the men a long, cold stare, and Theon couldn’t help but feel as if he had received the chilliest of them all. “We ride at dawn. You may excuse yourselves. Theon, I’ll have a word.”

Karstark and Bolton left as commanded, but the Greatjon lingered several moments longer, clearly considering further protest. _You've none to blame but yourself if you mislike the decision. You shouted 'King in the North' as loudly as any of the rest._ Fortunately, he seemed to think better of it, marching out of the tent with only a disapproving huff. 

Theon had expected to feel better once the three men had left, taking their criticizing looks along with them. He was disappointed to discover that Robb Stark wore one of his own. “Gods, Theon, what happened?”

“Suffice it to say my homecoming did not go as expected.” He flashed a mocking smile, but felt his own face twist against it. “I delivered my father your terms, but he... he spat in my face, burned your letter as soon as he read it. He’s forgotten me entirely. He’s fashioned my sister as if _she_ were his son, even seems content to make her his heir. To think, a _woman_ —”

“I sent you to treat with Balon, not bicker with him over inheritance. Did you do nothing to rally him to our cause?”

“He wouldn’t listen to me. He took one look at me before he made his judgement, told me that I turned soft from my time in the green lands.” He had accused him of belonging to the Starks, too, which Theon had denied. _Yet here I am._ “He took your appeal for ships as a sign of weakness. He knew the North would be poorly manned—”

“Did you tell him that?”

Robb might as well have slapped him across the face. “Are you mad? Of course I didn’t.” 

“Before you left for Pyke I had only my southern foes to worry about. Now I risk losing the North itself.” He gave an aggravated sigh. “My mother was right, I never should have sent you. If I had sent Blackwood––”

“––you would have been lucky to have had his head returned to you! My father had already hosted his longships before I even arrived.” A wretched tightness grappled at Theon’s throat as he remembered. _He had already planned to rebel, had set his eyes on the North before I even returned. He was prepared to trade my life for his crown. Ten years away, and I was already dead to him._

“He’d go to war for a crown I was willing to give him?”

Of course it sounded absurd in such terms, but now Theon could only hear Robb's ignorance in the question. _His ignorance, but it was I who had forgotten._ “You cannot _give_ the ironborn anything. A gift can be taken away as easily as it was given. In the old way, we take what we deserve. We pay for what we want with iron.”

“ _We_?” Remarked Robb, venom in his tone. Theon felt his blood begin to boil.

“It’s bad enough to have Umber or Bolton questioning my loyalty. I don’t need your doubts too, Stark. You do realize that I betrayed my _family_ by coming back? My own people? I will never sit as Lord of Pyke now. The isles will only remember me as Theon Turncloak. Every commoner will learn to curse the very mention of my name.”

“Aye, they may. But it is your father who has broken his treaty. He is the traitor, not you.”

_“_ I’ll still be son of a traitor, then.” _And who would trust a man who turned on his own father?_

“I know it must have been a difficult decision for you.” 

The words reeked of formal insincerity, turning Theon’s face sour. “No, you don’t know. What have _you_ ever known of such decisions? You’ve never had to soil that bloody honour of yours. You can always make the right choice. Tell me, what do you do when all options end in betrayal? Pyke was my home just as long as Winterfell. By rights, it would have been mine one day. And now I’ve abandoned it. I’ve abandoned my people, my birthright… for what? To be scorned by you Northerners as a traitor all the same?”

“Theon––”

“Would you have done the same, in my position? Had you been taken from your brothers and sisters, been fostered away from home for half your life— would you have forsaken your own house, your own _blood_? Turned your back on the Stark name, and stayed loyal to your captors?”

“Of course not.” Robb answered without hesitation, though he drew grim with regret as he realized his mistake.

“Aye, of course not. Blood comes first for you Starks.” _Not so much for Greyjoys, it seems. I might as well have been a stranger for all my father cared._ Theon would at least grace Balon with the same honour–- he was no father to him anymore. “You’d best be glad that I didn’t pick up that habit these past ten years.”

Robb retreated into silence as he stared solemnly back down at the map. He didn’t look up when he finally spoke again.

“Did you really consider betraying us, Theon?”

Theon swallowed hard, unnerved that Robb had the boldness to ask the question aloud. When denied a verbal response, Robb Stark found his answer in Theon’s guilty expression. 

“I knew you would come back.”

_That makes one of us,_ thought Theon. He left the tent without another word.


	2. Jaime

Some nights Jaime slept better than others. Why exactly, he wasn’t sure— the weather seemed to play no part, as he could remember just as many rain-drenched nights spent shivering and cursing at everything that moved as he could dry nights, long and silent but for the sounds of horse hooves shuffling and the inquisitive calling between owls in the trees. It made little matter though— regardless of how well he slept, he always awoke as stiff as a old man and as sore as if he'd kicked by a mule. It made hobbling along at the tail of the Stark host a far more arduous affair, and often his escorts were as lacking in compassion as they were in wits.

 _Today will be no different,_ Jaime thought with displeasure. _We'll haul in the camp, walk a little further south, and plop down again this evening at another damned valley just like all of the rest. We'll have some salted beef, lie down to sleep, and wake up and do it all over again until our feet fall off— or until one of these aurochs finally finds the courage to slit my throat. Jaime of House Lannister, Kingsguard and Kingslayer, killed by some baseborn Northerner, covered in mud and his own shit. At least get me near a battle so I can hear the sweet sounds of steel upon steel again before I die. Let me hear my father's greatest hopes all fall dead in the dirt._

Such morbid thoughts did not prevent him from noticing that something was amiss, though— normally, his escorts would kick him awake at the first sign of light, were he not already awoken by some Northern passerby spitting into his cage. Yet the sun had already begun to arch over the tops of the oaks and spruce that bordered the eastern side of the camp, and he had not seen a sign of either of his usual gaolers. He would have considered the possibility of the host delaying its movements for a day, were it not for the excess scrambling of men across the camp as they tore down pavilions and saddled palfreys, allowing nobody time enough to even sneer _Kingslayer_ at him as they all loved to do. _They've assembled and torn down this camp enough times that they should be able to do it even in a drunken stupor. Why all of the commotion?_

The sun had felt so nice on his filth-caked skin that Jaime had almost fallen asleep again in his cell before his escort finally arrived. But it was neither of the usual boys, the ones Jaime had mockingly called _The Kingslayerguard_ to himself. Instead, it was a lean boy just shy of twenty, with a familiar face but no name that Jaime could put to it. His dark hair stuck fast on his forehead, brow glistening with sweat and eyes narrowed with impatience.

“Kingslayer.” Over the years, Jaime had heard more than enough people call him by that title, so the boy’s accent immediately struck him as odd, not quite like the other Northerners.

“Ser Jaime will do just fine, thank you. And who do I have the pleasure of meeting?”

The keys rattled within the cell door as the boy unlocked it, ducking inside with a wrinkled nose. “I am your escort, Ser Maggot. I do hope the wind will carry away some of your stench.”

“A nice bath would be far more effective, I think.”

He gave that a scoff, kneeling down to unfasten Jaime’s iron-clad wrists from the stake that had been driven into the soft ground inside the cage. “I don’t doubt that. If you behave, perhaps I’ll throw you into the Trident as a reward.”

Jaime chuckled. _Perhaps this one will be more entertaining than the last two._ “The Trident? I’m flattered. You’d march that far back North just for me?”

The boy’s behaviour turned suddenly rough, with Jaime shoved onto his chin and knees without so much as a warning. “Get moving.”

 _Perhaps I judged too soon._ He obeyed the command, although arighting himself was a great deal harder with his hands bound together. “Where have my old gaolers gone? Meaning no offence, of course, but I think we were just beginning to form a lovely friendship. I do hope they didn't take that cow-faced comment too seriously— I’m sure their mothers are perfectly lovely women.”

“King Robb has sent them off on another task, although that’s no business of yours.”

Jaime rolled his neck from side to side as he lurched out of the cell, his back grateful for finally having the room to stand. “And King Robb sends one man to replace two?”

“Aye, when the man is me.”

“A confident man.”

“It doesn’t take much confidence to best a swordless man in chains, Ser,” he pointed out, turning Jaime by the shoulder towards the northern half the camp, where men of every house had already begun assembling in wait of the command to march. “We’d be wise to break our fast before we depart. I do not believe we will be stopping any more than necessary once we leave.”

 _So there is something amiss._ “You Northerners are dancing around like there's a hornet in your halfhelm. What’s happened? Has my father sent back King Robb’s terms with the heads of the Stark girls?”

That earned him another violent shove on the back, although this time he was able to keep his balance. “You’d be wise to keep your mouth shut with talk like that, Kingslayer. Even you must have the wits to realize I’m not just here to keep you from running. Most of these Northerners would take great pleasure in opening your neck, given the chance. You’d best not tempt me to let them.”

“Don’t go making empty threats, boy. Robb Stark would behead the man who lost him his most valuable prisoner.”

Jaime paused as he heard the boy’s footfalls stop, turning to see the unmistakable flickerings of anger in his eyes. He expected the boy to strike him for the wide grin he couldn’t help but wear, but to his credit he did not even unclench his hand from the pommel of his sword. “That’s _King_ Robb Stark to you, Lannister.”

The hatred that he used in the articulation of _Lannister_ finally connected a memory to the comely face. “Now I remember you. You rode beside Robb Stark at the Whispering Wood— the bowman upon a dappled courser.”

When Jaime saw the prideful smile that snuck onto the boy’s face, he realized that the battle hadn’t been the first time they had met, either.

“You will have to forgive me for not recognizing you sooner, Theon Greyjoy. You looked much different when we met at Winterfell, all garbed in pretty silks and velvets.”

The smile left as quickly as it came. “I could say the same about you, Kingslayer. Though it is more than your clothing that has changed. Keep walking.”

Jaime obeyed the command, but had no intention to do so quietly. “Still kicking around with the Starks, are you? I thought after dear Eddard’s death you’d be free to scurry back home–– although, I do suppose that’s not quite how being a hostage works. Tell me, do they call you Robb’s ward now, or have they finally done away with the niceties?”

Greyjoy was delayed in his response yet again, and Jaime did not doubt he was considering the option of hitting him. “You remind me much of your brother.”

“If you mean my tongue, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Learn to hold it, else I’ll do us all a favour and take it from you. Surely even your lord father would notice the improvement.”

The line of men looking for food was smaller than Jaime had most typically seen it. His gaolers most often broke his fast long before the rest of the camp had awoken to avoid causing more commotion than necessary— at first light nearly a hundred men could be found standing impatiently for their meal. _One of the many wondrous benefits of being a prisoner. First to eat, and first to grow hungry again._ At such a late time, though, there were only a dozen stragglers grumbling amongst each other as the two bearded cooks scooped out scoops of grey, lumpy porridge into hollowed-out trenchers of bread. Theon Greyjoy tossed Jaime into the line without so much as a 'good morrow' to the other men, choosing instead to look fixedly about the rest of the camp, taking care to avoid eye contact with any of the passersby. Unfortunately, it didn’t take long for attention to fall upon Jaime’s presence.

“Well thank the gods, lads,” said the man ahead of them, who had a bald spot in his grey-streaked hair large enough for a bird to nest in. “Our bread might be as hard as stone, but today we break our fast with the Kingslayer.”

Jaime smiled the smile he had been taught to wear in court. “And a good morrow to you, friends. I pray we make good distance today— this war has lasted far too long for my tastes.”

A different man chortled briefly at that, but the rest of the eyes that looked upon him had not a hint of amusement about them. “You’re no friend of ours, Lannister. The only reason you still live is because of your lord father, Tyrion. The way I hear it, he would fuck a goat up the ass if it got you back.”

Jaime would have laughed had he thought it wise. “Tywin Lannister is my lord father. Lord Tyrion is my brother— the imp, as you all so lovingly call him. Neither would take kindly to you confusing them together. Nor have I ever known them to be particularly fond of goat-fucking. Please, you must tell me what it is like— perhaps your own experience could change their minds.”

When the man lunged at him, Jaime readied himself to duck out of the way, but Greyjoy pulled him by the collar before he had the chance. The man halted his assault once Jaime was out of reach.

“You keep your mouth shut,” Theon hissed to Jaime, before turning back to the man. “And you mind yourself, fool. This man is King Robb’s prisoner. If you have any issue with him I suggest you take it up with His Grace.”

The balding man gritted his teeth at the scolding, spitting at Theon’s feet as he backed away. A new voice raised up. “And what if we have issue with you, Greyjoy? I have half a mind to ask His Grace why your head isn’t yet mounted on a pike.”

“If it’s a head you want, perhaps you’d be so kind as to donate your own. Otherwise, keep to your own business. There are far more pressing matters at hand.”

 _He speaks boldly for one so outnumbered,_ Jaime observed. _A courageous fool._

“Aye, pressing matters. Matters that you brought upon us, Turncloak.”

Theon’s expression turned to stone. “Even a fool like you must know that a turncloak fights for the other side. Do not call me that again.”

Four separate voices shouted turncloak right back at him, and the balding man spat once more. “Hah. A turncloak can stab their allies in the back while fighting alongside them. I’m not going to take my chances.”

“You need not fear of back-stabbing,” Greyjoy shifted his hand to the grip of his sword, arming himself with a fierce grimace. “Continue insulting me and I shall make sure to stab you right where you can see.”

 _Draw steel and you’re dead, boy._ Jaime would have no difficulty disposing of the men were he armed, but he doubted that the boy could boast of the same thing. And even if he did, no doubt his dear King Robb would not take kindly to such an attack on his own men. _Mind yourself and you may still leave this with your life. Although, a fight would also make for a nice opportunity to finally rid myself from these thrice-damned Starks…_

Jaime never had the chance to try his luck, though. No sooner had the Northerners moved to draw their own blades than did the Lord of the Dreadfort draw up beside them, the pale pink cloak fastened about his shoulders floating behind him. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Greyjoy just threatened to kill Raymund, m’lord,” blurted a panicked voice. At least these fools know Bolton is not one to jape with.

“Is that so?” Roose Bolton did not turn to face the one who spoke; he had eyes only for Theon. “If I remember correctly, His Grace had tasked you to bury the three who died last night. Surely you aren’t wanting to dig another grave, Greyjoy?”

Jaime caught himself smirking before anyone could notice. _It seems the Leech Lord didn’t have that sharp tongue sucked from him, at least._

“No, my Lord. I think I’ve done enough digging for this morning,” Theon answered with a bitter courtesy.

“Good, because our departure is late enough as it is. I do not want any more delays.” Bolton turned a cold gaze upon the Northerners. “Am I understood?”

A few men muttered “aye, m’lord” in return, while the rest gave solemn nods.

“Then see yourselves fed and saddled within the half-hour. If I hear of any more disturbances, Greyjoy will personally see to any of the necessary graves.” He paused, considering the ironborn a moment longer. “Unless it is his own, of course. Then I will task you with the honour, Ser Jaime.”

“Most kind of you, Lord Bolton. Though the way I understand, the boy would much prefer one last swim out to the sea.”

He thought that might earn a laugh or two from the northerners, but it seemed that any sense of humour they had died as soon as Bolton appeared. Strangely enough, Roose himself cracked a twisted smile, turning his gaze back to Theon.

“I am pleased to see that our guest is not yet bruised from helm to heels, despite his prickly tongue. I am certain you shall see it is kept it that way, as King Robb commanded.”

Theon swallowed whatever words he first wished to share with Lord Bolton. “Of course, my lord. Just as commanded.”

The line advanced swiftly and silently after that point, the continuous circulation of vicious glares making up for what the northerners did not say in words. Jaime was even less bothered than usual, though, as he realized just as many were directed towards Theon as were towards himself. When it finally came time for their own serving of porridge, the bearded men refused to provide Theon with more than a single trencher full, explaining that it was waste to even give traitors that much. Instead of causing a commotion, though, Greyjoy took the serving with tight lips, shoving the lukewarm bowl at Jaime. “Try not to choke on it.”

Jaime had to walk quickly to keep in stride with the boy as he stormed off, nearly choking on the few swallows of the gruel he decided to hazard. They marched obediently and silently, prisoner ahead of guard, for half the morning, but the bizarre nature and circumstances of poor Greyjoy's strife intrigued him to the point where his curiosity could no longer handle the quiet.

“I hope you don’t mind me saying,” he craned a head backwards, slowing his walk so they fell slightly behind the rest of the host, hoping to avoid eavesdroppers, “but I do believe you are hated here just as much as I am.”

“Believe what you want. Just believe it in silence.”

The boy’s tone was so bitter, Jaime couldn’t help but smile. “It’s more than just that, isn’t it? Unless I’m a blind man, you’re just as much prisoner here, too. Still a hostage after all these yea—”

Theon used a foot to catch Jaime’s ankle chains mid-step, nearly sending him face-first into the dirt for a second time that morning. “I don’t seem to be one tripping on chains and fetters, ser.”

“Look at how proud the dog is to be free of his collar,” Jaime sneered, treading more carefully along the trampled path to avoid another possible tumble were Greyjoy to lash out again. “You should know that a chained prisoner has more honour than one that follows in heel, like a whipped cur. The Northerners mistrust us both as enemies, but it is obvious who they fear more. They know better than to trust me with one of those.” He gestured at the sword hanging from Theon’s waist, noting with pleasure that the boy pulled it away from view, as if in guilt of owning the weapon.

“I will take pride in the fact that I am trusted more than you, Kingslayer. Unlike you, I have a reputation that does not imply betrayal.”

Jaime have an incredulous laugh. “Betrayal? You speak as if you owe some sort of allegiance to these captors of yours.”

Jaime glanced back, and Theon stood taller in his stride, refusing to meet his eyes. “I've been raised in Winterfell for half my life. These men are not my enemies.”

“I wonder if they would say the same. To them, that’s still half a lifetime away. I’ve been kept prisoner for half a year now, and I don’t think I’ll be calling any of these men brother anytime soon.”

That earned him a scowl. “If you think we are anything alike—”

“Besides, it is not the Ironborn who have declared war? Do you want them to lose, to be crushed and slaughtered like the last time? Hells, with any luck they’ll even be wiped out entirely, these rebellions are becoming quite the annoyance—”

“— I never said —”

“— then what? I thought you’d have already learned that wars never end with two victors.” _More oft than not, there isn’t even one._

“I know that!” Each of Theon’s responses was shorter and louder than the last.

“Then why do so you seem so determined to side with your captors? Do you forget why you were brought back to Ned Stark in the first place?” Jaime shook his head. “Surely even you can see that every man in this host wants to see your head anywhere but above your shoulders.” And I certainly know that look well.

Theon hesitated in his reply. “Not all of them,” he said.

“I do hope you are not thinking of your dear Robb Stark. The boy’s a king now, and waging at a war. He will try his best to make friendly with everyone— and will be earnest with none of them. Winning is all that matters now to him, and at any cost. A king has no friends.”

“Do not assume to speak as if you know him, Kingslayer.”

“Then do not assume to speak as if you know me, Turncloak.”

The sound of Theon’s footfalls ceased. Jaime stopped too, but didn’t hazard a gaze back.

“If you call me that again—”

“There will be more than me who call you that, I promise you,” promised Jaime, staring at the backs of the Stark host marching onwards. “If you stay and fight for the Starks, or if you return to fight for your own family… it won’t matter. The other side will always remember you by that name.”

Jaime was surprised when Theon didn’t give a response. He turned back, and saw the boy with his jaw clenched tight from the reply he couldn’t find.

“Keep walking, Lannister,” he said at last, shoving Jaime forward. He did not say another word to Jaime for the remainder of their march that day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me tell you guys, pre-ADWD Theon and Jaime have been the two characters I have wanted to see interact the most out of any ASoIaF characters. Sadly that possibility has long since passed, so this is the best I can manage. I can only hope that they maybe interact in the books or show at some point.


End file.
